I'm totally cracking up over the subject matter for today's March May Challenge post.  Favorite food?  Seriously?  My favorite food has been changing second by second during the last nine months, and sometimes my favorite food is non-existent.  Food?  Nasty stuff!

In the past, tacos have been my favorite, but they have to be homemade tacos.  I'm picky.  Any traditional breakfast food has always been a safe bet as well.  Eggs, bacon, biscuits, hashbrowns...yum! 

In fact, is it lunchtime yet?  Cause I just made myself hungry.

Hmm, upon further analysis, never mind.  I am NOT hungry.  Blech.

I've been thinking about my pregnancies, and how different they all were in food cravings.  With Liberty, I craved only raw fruits and vegetables, and the thought of meat made my stomach turn.  I never could fit an entire meal into my tummy while she was in there, so I ended up snacking every couple hours.  I lost close to fifty pounds while I was pregnant with Liberty, and I felt so energetic and full of vitality. 

With Mercy, I craved meat and potatoes and all manner of desserts, mostly chocolate (which was highly unusual because prior to Mercy's gestation I hated chocolate of all sorts).  The smell of salad or any type of vegetation sent me running for the nearest receptacle.  I paid the price for my eating habits, too.  I ended up with gestational diabetes with Mercy Jane, and I gained thirty pounds.

This little girl, on the other hand...well, I've been all over the board with her.  Most of the time, I don't want to eat ANYTHING.  And when I do, it just comes back up again anyway.  Then there are times when all I want is a plate full of deep green crunchy vegetables full of refreshing, watery goodness.  Some days I cannot get enough sugar, and I've lived on drive-thru milkshakes for every meal of the day.  Other days, potatoes in any form take control of my brain.  But I'd have to say chips and queso have been my number one craving throughout this entire pregnancy.  Chips and queso and fast food breakfast sandwiches.  Don't judge!

And I've only gained six pounds so far.

Now, why can't that happen when I'm not pregnant?




"What is queso?" you ask before thinking yourself bilingual, "Oh you mean cheese." "NO!" I shout with bitter indignation, "Queso is the golden currency of heaven above, flown down to us by nude cherubs so that we might find a small plot of happiness in our lifetime." This photo and quote are both from www.dishola.com created by Dano who is dedicated to finding the best and most wonderful queso alive in Austin, TX. He is clearly a man after my own heart.

I saw a woman the other day.  She was about my age, in her early thirties.  She hobbled slowly as she walked because she was probably close to eight and a half months pregnant.  I saw her take a step and wince, one hand putting pressure on her lower back, presumably trying to alleviate an angry sciatic nerve in her left leg.  She wore a wrinkled turquoise maternity top and stained khaki shorts - most likely because the waistband on those shorts was the only waistband left in her closet that fits around her tummy.  Her brown hair hung limply waving of its own accord in various directions.  Her bangs were pulled back with a metal barrette away from her face in an unflattering way.  I wondered if her pregnancy hormones were getting the best of her wayward bangs, too, thus prompting the desperate barrette move.  Another glance at her face confirmed this presumption on my part because I noticed a large red zit to the left of her chin.  Yep.  Score another point for the hormones.  Poor lady.  She looked miserable and downhearted.

I wondered if waiting the final weeks for her baby's arrival was causing her a slight depression the way it does for me?  I've never been good at waiting.  I wondered if she felt as unattractive and unnecessary as I do?  Eight and a half months of inability will do that to a person's psyche. 

As I watched her attempting to put on a brave front and walk without too much wincing, an older gentleman approached her from the opposite direction.  He glanced at her face as he approached, and she glanced at his.  She halfway smiled/grimaced at him while once again her left foot touched the floor.  She self-consciously took her hand from her back and held it loosely at her side, attempting to look normal.  Then her smile brightened perceptibly.  It became genuine and lost most of the grimace.  I'm not sure what caused the change, but I wonder if it stemmed from her desire not to look so pathetic to others?  A desire to spread joy rather than misery?  Or maybe even a realization that she wasn't representing her true state of mind to someone who needed to see God with her?

Whatever the cause, it had a dramatic impact on the white-haired man.  He did a double-take just as he passed her and said, "What a beautiful smile!" 

"Thank you!" she responded.  Her voice reflected appreciation and surprise.

The two of them continued on their opposite paths.  I could no longer see his face, but the pregnant woman's reflected equal parts pleasure, surprise, and pondering.  I have no idea what she was thinking, but the misery and downheartedness I had noticed earlier was erased even though her left hand returned to supporting her back at each step.  She glanced in a nearby shop window and smiled big.  At first I thought she was checking out her own "beautiful smile" reflection, but then I realized she was smiling at two people inside the store.  I watched them.  They did not seem to know her, but one hesitantly returned the smile.

The lady passed from my sight, and I was left pondering the difference a gentleman made with four words, and the difference the lady made in her own life with her choice to truly smile despite her feelings.

Day 25 of the March May Challenge asks me to describe my location for you.  Well, that's boring.  I'm sitting at my computer, typing a blog post.  I suppose I could go into great detail about my surroundings.  But really.  I'm tired. 

I could take the assignment up to a higher plane and describe my mental location, but that's way too introspective for my mood today.  And besides, don't I do that almost every day on this blog?  That gets old!

So what other kinds of locations are there to tell you about? 

Go, go, Creative Juices.

....

It didn't work.

So...uh, how about I tell you something else.  Like...

Now, see?  I had so many posts written in my head a few weeks ago, and they were all amusing.  Speaking of amusing, I got bored on my way home from dropping the girls off at school this morning, and I started scanning through the radio stations.  I landed on one where a whiney sounding guy was singing about how sad he was that "you" were gone.  He said, "Every time I think of you, it feels like this," and he proceeded to howl mournfully into the microphone.  "Ooooooooooooooooooooooh." 

I couldn't help it.  I laughed so hard I couldn't see through the slits my eyelids had created.  The song sounded like something Liberty and Mercy would make up if they were into the dating scene.  (Which will be never.)  Thankfully, for my driving skills we were close to the end of the song, but the next song that came on caused me to cry with laughter.

I'm Sexy And I Know It

Seriously, you guys!  Who wrote this song?  A thirteen-year-old?  I've heard parts of the song before while I've been out shopping or as a montage in a cheesy movie, but I've never heard the entire thing start to finish.  Here are just some of the amazing lyrics.

I'm sexy and I know it.
(I work out.)

Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, Yeah!
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, yeah!

When I go out with no shoes and no shirt, I still get service.
I'm sexy, and I know it.
(I work out.)

Oh my goodness!  I had tears dripping down my cheeks!  Forget about who wrote the song.  I want to know what major recording studio decided it was good enough to be made into a real song and then broadcast to people who might accidentally hear it on the radio? 

Has anyone ever paid cash to own that song?

Um, never mind.  Strike that last question, because I know people who have paid cash to own The Pants Song by Five Iron Frenzy.  See lyrics below.

Aieee....I love my pantalones.
They fit me oh so tight.
They make me smile with delight.
Do you.....?

(Track 10 - Easy Listening style)
I'll never forget when I saw you standin' there wearin' pants.
You were all alone, and I thought to myself "Man I wish I had those pants!"
But the problem was
Those wearn't my pants.
I dunno whose pants they are
But I want 'em.
I only know that I want 'em.
So why don't you come over here
And rock baby.
Oh hold on to me tight, and keep wearin' them pants.
Cause I love you....

(Track 11 - Country/Western style)
These are not my pants.
I don't know whose they are.
They smell a lot like Bobby's
Cause he likes to fart.
These are not my pants.
How did they get here?
And I'm fillin up with fear
Cause these are not my pants.
Thank you, I'll be at the grand ol' opry tonite.

(Track 12 - Rock style)
WWWWWWWWWWAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!
These are not my pants!
Whose pants are these anyways?
These are not my pants!
Whose pants are these anyways?
Are these Bobby's, or Timmy's, or Billy's pants?
No, NOOOO!!!!!
These are not my pants!

WOOOOOHHHHHHHHH!
BBBLLLLAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!
GAAAAHHHHH!!!
Are you listening to what I say?

(Track 13 - Sorta Rap style)
Pants.
Don't a look at my pants.
Now I got my pants on.
An' I'm chillin, but they aren't my pants,
These are not my pants.
That's what I gotta say.
I ain't wearin' no pants.
I got Billy, Bobby, Jerry, Filly, Illy, Ooh, Chilly, mmmm pantsooh....little bit o' oooohhh
Hhmmmm ah my pants.
Whose pants are these?  They're not my pants.  They're not your pants.
They're not Billy's pants, or Bobby's, or Timmy's.  What's goin on? Whose pants? Ohhmmm (door)
That's what I'm tryin' to say, but yo don't step this way cause I got my pants on yeah.

(Track 14 - Inspirational Interlude style)
C'mon people now
This is the time to unite
A little revolution of the pants.
Right now is the time.
Now who hold the pants,
And whose are these pants?
Will we ever found the home for the pants?
C'mon now....unite a little revolution of the pants.
Yes...right now.

(Track 15 - Bert & Ernie style)
These are not my pants.
These are not my pants.
These are not my pants.
Bobby....BOBBY! Bobby's pants!
Woohoohoo!
These are not my....PANTS!

(Track 16 - Censored Rap style)
---Check one check ----
Uh, Yo! Bobby and Billy, You out ---- what's up?----
Yo me and Bobby we was walkin' down the----
And yo we didn't have nothin' to ----
But we had our pants on
But yo these ain't my pants
Uh, I get 'em off now-----
Um, tight, oh they so tight-----
------Ouch, ooie, ooie eee -----
Um, Billy, Timmy, ah, hello there.
Yeah....cause we in the street ----
Uh Talkin' bout the Bobbys and the Billys out there
And they tight pants on
Ya to loosen ------ loosen 'em up----- Know what I'm sayin'?
Wassup?
-----HUUUU HUUUUU ------WASSUUUU ------
Hey wassuuuu this is Bobby and Billy
-----uuuuuuuuuuu ------- --- --- --- --- wassuuuuu!!!
(too high-pitched to understand)


But maybe all those lyrics were too much for you?  Here is a seven minute YouTube video of The Pants Song.  (Warning: you might hate me after this, but it is appropriate for children of all ages.) 

(It was probably written by children of all ages.)


It all makes sense now.

And maybe, just maybe, this post WAS all about my mental location these days. 

Hmm.  Deep...

Remember the March Challenge?  Yeah, let's just call it the May Challenge, shall we?

I let this post sit for days months because I couldn't figure out how to narrow my embarrassing moments down and pick just one.  Then I read my friend Donette's post, and realized I don't have to limit my embarrassment to just one moment. 

Lucky me.

Prepare to have my life flash before your eyes.

Moment #1:  Youth Group Picnic
The summer after sixth grade, I started attending youth group activities.  The first one was a parent/teen picnic.  My fellow formerly-sixth-grade friends and I filled our paper plates with food from the outdoor buffet line and boldly found empty chairs in the circle under a huge tree where all the "real" teens were sitting.  Our parents also filled their plates and found spots somewhere else where all the other parents were gathering to talk about how unbelievable it was for their darling children to be old enough for youth group already.  The heat and humidity were somewhat relieved in the shade created by the spreading branches of the giant tree over us, but I still sweatily wished for a cool breeze to start up as I picked up a ruffled potato chip and brought it to my mouth regretting that I had forgotten to scoop any dip onto my plate.  My friends, Kristin and April, sat beside me quietly nibbling their food, slightly intimidated like I was by the new group of teens we had joined. 

Just then, I felt a large bug smack into my forehead, right where my hairline started.  The impact must have startled me because at the same time I felt my paper plate jump in my hand, and I looked down to see if I had spilled any food.  I hadn't.  But I did notice a tablespoon-sized glob of chip dip on my plate, and I stared at it, not remembering putting it there.  Hesitantly, I used my half-eaten chip to scoop some up.  It was white with black specks.  Was it ranch dip?  French-onion?  I racked my brain trying to remember the various dips that had been on the buffet table so I could determine which kind I must have scooped onto my plate.  I raised the dip-laden chip to my lips, but my friend's high-pitched squeak stopped me.  She pointed with wide eyes to my forehead.  I set the chip carefully down on my plate, wiped the grease and salt from my fingers with a napkin, and gingerly touched the spot where I had earlier felt the bug hit my forehead.

My fingers encountered something wet and smooshy.  Gross!  I thought, Bug guts!  I pulled my hand away and inspected my fingers.  They were covered in chip dip.  The same dip that I had just contemplated on my plate.  How had I gotten dip in my hair?  I wondered.  Then horrified, I thought about which teen boys had been near me in the buffet line.  Had any of them seen me smear dip into my hair and walk around like that?  I was so embarrassed.

I set my plate down on my chair and rushed into the church bathroom.  The mirror showed me a massive glop of dip starting in my hair and running down my forehead.  I couldn't believe my friends hadn't pointed it out to me sooner! 

Then I realized.

That was no dip.

It was bird poop.

I remembered the tree.  I remembered the impact on my head.  I remembered the plate jump.  I had been pooped on.

AND HAD ALMOST EATEN IT.

flickr photo by Ferran Pastana

Can your embarrassing moment top that? 

(Because if it can, I have more moments to tell you about.  I'm just too tired to type them out right now.)

I received a confirmation phone call this morning from the hospital where our C-section will be done.  They scheduled all the details with me, and after I got off the phone, I sent the following email to Jeremy.


Hi, Daddy!

Your daughter is scheduled to be delivered on Wednesday,
June 5th at 7:30 am.  We are required to be at the hospital at 5:30
in the morning because there are insane people in this world. 

I am not allowed to eat that morning, so I will be extremely mad at you
if you get something amazing to eat.  Plan to suffer with a bowl of
plain oatmeal.

I'm totally kidding.  A granola bar would also be acceptable.

I love you!
Missy


Then I waited in anticipation of whatever hilarious response he would send back detailing all of his scrumptious breakfast plans for that morning.


Missy,

YAY!!!!!!

I look forward to it!  HAPPY US!!!!

Love, Jeremy


Either he was afraid that assuming I was joking would do to him what assuming usually does to people, or he is so excited about the baby that my joke was secondary in his thought processes. 

Maybe both?